


The Shots You Take

by Madlyie



Series: The Shots You Take (That Hockey AU) [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, because it's Enjolras so you know, but also love, i have weakness for Montparnasse, love at first sight (kind of), there is so much hockey nerd stuff in this i apologize
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 19:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11319816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madlyie/pseuds/Madlyie
Summary: Enjolras is already happy enough his team only has to play against their - or maybe just his and his team's by default - arch nemesis two times a season but when they have to call up a last-minute backup goalie to start the game... well, he is not exactly ecstatic. Not even when said backup goalie named Grantaire maybe has really nice hands and a smirk that makes Enjolras glad they're playing their sport on something as cooling as ice.Prequel // Can be read as a stand-alone





	The Shots You Take

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most self-indulgent thing I have EVER written and I thought well, whatever, let me share this incredibly self-indulgent thing to make it less ‘self’ and more ‘Happy ExR Week Everyone!!’. Only then it turned out to be longer and I didn't get it done on time for Alternative Universe Day so yeah. This kind takes the justification away that it's the perfect day to write far off, far fetched Alternative Universes that just need a little love. (And leaves more of the slightly embarrassing ‘It’s offseason and I really miss hockey’ reasoning.)
> 
> I don’t pretend to know anything about the inner workings of a hockey team or well, hockey players but I also don’t know anything about impact induced ear trauma or the intended hierarchical structures of other countries in Lewis Carrol’s Wonderland, and I’ve written about those as well, so I thought, oh why the hell not.
> 
> Which is why we are here, in the notes at the beginning of a way too long Les Mis Hockey Universe Fic. This is for everyone who said they actually wanted to read it because otherwise, it would have probably been buried somewhere deep in my folder of WIPs, you're the best! ♥♥♥
> 
> To all the others: Welcome, and yeah, enjoy the show.

 

 

***

 

Enjolras knew he was a good captain.

 

If media, interviewers and management were anything to go by, he was a _great_ captain even but he also had enough confidence on his own to _know_ that he was, and not only to be told. He wouldn’t have taken the captaincy at just 21 if he hadn’t been sure, hadn’t known that he didn’t only want to do well for himself but for the team. _His_ team.

There were different kinds of leadership in different locker rooms and Enjolras was aware that he might not take the same approach as other captains in the league but he wasn’t _just_ a captain.

He was also only just 22, a professional athlete, and responsible for a bunch of ragtag hockey players struggling through the last stretch of the season, a top-three place in the division and to simply find a good night’s sleep.

 

So yeah, all of this meant he was kind of too busy to extend his acute attention very far beyond anything but his own team.

 

Meaning, that when their goalie went down just before heading into back to back games after ending a 4 game road-trip - and really, they should just cancel the whole state of California - and the emergency backup goalie from the minors had to be called up… well.

It was certainly not Enjolras’s fault that he was being slightly unaware of the existence of certain minor league goalies. Not that he wanted to diminish the existence of minor league goalies, or players, or anyone really. It just usually wasn’t his … area of responsibility.

So in the end, maybe it wasn’t Enjolras’s finest moment when before the game, Coach Lamarque pulled him aside to tell him that the backup goalie to their backup goalie was starting in the match against what was basically their - or maybe just Enjolras’s, and the team’s by default - arch nemesis, and Enjolras’s only reaction was an unbelieving scoff.

Until he realised Coach was indeed, being perfectly serious.

His second reaction was frantically scanning the locker room for said goalie who turned out to be situated just a couple of stalls to his left.

The young man was maybe a bit older than Enjolras himself - but really, who wasn’t - and had a mop of dark brown, almost black curls falling into his face as he was leaning forward to tie up his skates.

For a moment Enjolras was distracted by his hands. It was an odd detail to notice hands; they were hockey players, their hands were part of their job doing what they were supposed to do. Necessary, usable assets, nothing more.

But somehow still, the other man’s hands were oddly fascinating, long, almost fragile looking fingers deftly tying the laces with practised movements, pragmatic grace.

 

 

Yeah, Enjolras was totally staring.

 

 

“He’s good,” Lamarque said and Enjolras turned back to focus on the Coach. “He wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

It was almost insulting because Enjolras _knew_ that but Lamarque didn’t sound like he was chiding him, just reassuring. “Just give the guy a shot.”

And Enjolras trusted the coach to know what was best for the team like Lamarque trusted him in the same way. Enjolras wouldn’t have been named captain otherwise, and he wouldn’t have wanted to be.

Which was why he just rolled back his shoulders and said, “He doesn’t have to shoot, Sir. He’s a goalie.”

 

Lamarque’s small smile let Enjolras know, they both took his words for the approval that they were. Then he wandered off, probably to talk to Combeferre about their power play or something.

 

Enjolras glanced back at the goalie and before he could think twice about it, started walking over. Even if the guy was probably not going to be sticking around for a long time, it was his job to make everyone feel welcome on the team. Or well, he usually left that to Courfeyrac as one of his alternate captains because he was much better at the warm and welcoming part than Enjolras. But saying hello was just polite.

He didn’t really expect much of an answer because the goalies he knew tended to get into a weird, for any ordinary human being incomprehensible goalie headspace right before games but when he walked over, the young man looked up and Enjolras almost tripped over his own feet.

The other man’s eyes were bright, a greenish blue, indistinguishable which colour was outweighing the other, under strong brows and over a nose slightly too big for his face but that didn’t look like it had been broken yet.

And Enjolras had been looked at in many different ways during his career as a hockey player, and a captain. With awe, amused or even pitiful at his young age, doubtful a lot, and hopeful even more.

The man looked up, bright eyes, thin expressive mouth turning into a lazy one-sided smirk that looked like even moving the muscles was nearly too much of an effort to put up with. He looked up at Enjolras and said, “Captain.”

The most contemptuous, mocking tone amusement that Enjolras had ever heard sounded in his voice and Enjolras had thought he knew people who had perfected that tone but apparently that had been a grave misassumption.

 

 

Enjolras realised he was staring again when the other man’s smile widened just a little.

 

 

“Enjolras,” he forced himself to say, as if not everyone in the entire room knew that, and held out his hand.

“Grantaire,” the other man said in a perfect imitation of Enjolras’s tone and… well, he hadn’t _meant_ to sound that self-assured. He tried not to flinch and instead, reached for the goalie’s - Grantaire’s - hand.

Grantaire’s fingers were longer than his, and the handshake wasn’t overly firm, almost soft even, and went on for a few more seconds than strictly necessary. Enjolras didn’t know if it was his or Grantaire’s fault.

He eventually did let go of the other man’s hand, or maybe that let go of each others’.

“It’s good to have you here,” Enjolras said because he knew how to do at least polite conversation, and usually what people wanted to hear.

 

Apparently ‘people’ didn’t include Grantaire.

 

The other man snorted dismissively. Somehow the reaction made it irrationally difficult for Enjolras to maintain the course of said intended polite conversation.

He couldn’t help but frown. “What?”

Grantaire shrugged. “It’s alright, Captain. You don’t have to pretend you’re happy I’m here. But whatever, I’ll try not to let you down too much, alright? No guarantees though.”

Enjolras wasn’t often speechless but Grantaire sounded so plainly pragmatic and honest like he actually believed he _was_ going to let the team down which… what? They were in the big leagues, and Enjolras had been under the often proved assumption that no one really made it this far without some kind of ego, no matter if loud and boisterous, or quiet confidence.

If Enjolras hadn’t known better, he might have said Grantaire simply sounded bitter. Only, Enjolras didn’t know better. He didn’t actually know anything about the man at all. And that… shouldn’t have been something to care about so much that it felt like such a sobering thought.

 

 

The stretching silence made it quite clear that Enjolras was not going to say anything else, he wouldn’t have know what to say anyway, so when Grantaire raised an eyebrow, Enjolras turned around abruptly and stalked back to his stall.

 

 

He had to get his gear on anyway; they had a game to play here.

A stick nudged his leg when he sat down to tug on his skates, a tad too brutally maybe.

“Everything okay?” Courfeyrac asked.

Enjolras sighed. It didn’t make sense to try and pretend not to be upset. Courfeyrac knew him far too well but somehow exactly the point that Courfeyrac could see his obvious annoyance, made it clear what a stupid thing it was to get worked up that much.

“Coach’s playing the… Grantaire.”

It felt wrong to say the ‘new’ guy. There was no guarantee that Grantaire would be staying, the very opposite was much more likely to be the case.

Courfeyrac made a noise of agreement. “Yeah, good for him, right?”

Enjolras blinked at his friend in disbelief and when Courfeyrac glanced over at him, he looked like he was trying hard not to laugh at Enjolras.

“Joly and Bossuet played with him down in the minors, you know? They were pretty awesome. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Courfeyrac’s optimism was a peculiar one, Enjolras always thought. Nothing like his own that he liked thinking he had, that ran mostly on sheer determination and unwillingness to give up. Courfeyrac was warm and kind and Enjolras couldn’t help but smile at him, feeling a lot lighter than just a few moments before.

He softly knocked against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, a silent thank you.

“Still can’t let all those d-men do the work, eh?” he joked - or well, half-joked maybe - and the grin Courfeyrac shot him in return was wide and excited.

“Oh, you bet we won’t, hon.”

 

 

***   

 

 

Enjolras usually did his warm-up stretches on the side of the blue line closer to the goal line but this time Joly and Bossuet were busy whirling around the net and by proxy, Grantaire and Enjolras… didn’t know how to deal with him. Yet. Yet? He didn’t know if he was going to have to get used to him; he was still tending to think not so he kept his distance.

He also needed to get into _his_ right headspace for the game.

His legs were still indistinctly aching from the game the day before, a win but not a pretty one, by the skin of their teeth just in regulation. The team had ended a road trip without a day off, everyone was exhausted and in dire need of sleeping in their own beds and a good practice at home to work out those freaking turnovers that were still happening so many damn-

 

 

He was thinking too much.

 

 

Enjolras took a deep breath and concentrated on working his muscles, not on the sounds, the fans, music, blades. Just his body, just breathing-

 

“You’re going to give us a shot at your new goalie? That’s sweet.”

 

 

Alright, Enjolras should have probably kept to his usual warm-up spot on the ice. Instead of that close to the other team’s side. Rookie mistake.

 

 

Enjolras looked up to the man who had been speaking. He was leaning on his stick and looking down, lazily but still somewhat elegant, right on the red line. His smile was sharp and didn’t reach his eyes, or maybe it was just not possible to see, his eyes too dark, a brown that was almost entirely black.

Enjolras suppressed the very strong urge to roll his eyes. “Go dye your hair Parnasse, your roots are showing.” 

“Fuck off, they’re not,” Montparnasse snapped back.

Jehan, who had been skating laps around their side of the ice, drifted by right in time to hear him, and smiled. “I think you look great, Parnasse,” Jehan called, before passing them with quick strides.

And coming from Jehan that shouldn’t necessarily be taken as a reliable compliment because even Enjolras couldn’t think back to the one mint green gameday suit without horror but Montparnasse looked kind of delighted. As far as his fairly reduced range of facial expressions allowed anyway.

Enjolras shuddered. “Stop flirting, that’s my teammate.”

Montparnasse shrugged in a way that clearly projected the notion of ‘Fuck off, I do what I want.’ “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Enjolras.”

This time, Enjolras did roll his eyes. Hard. “ _Teammate_ , Parnasse.” 

It was technically a rule of his, not to get involved with teammates on principle, only that there had never really been an occasion to apply said rule because sweaty hockey players in smelly locker rooms lost their appeal fairly quickly. Quickly, like about two weeks into juniors. 

Montparnasse raised a perfect eyebrow - and how he still managed to keep his face completely intact and impeccable as a professional hockey player was a mystery to Enjolras. “Is that going to be an issue?”

“What?” Enjolras frowned because alright, he wasn’t Montparnasse’s number one fan or anything, quite the opposite, but Jehan was a grown up person who could make their own decisions, or mistakes because, well, Parnasse.

 

But Montparnasse just nodded meaningfully at… Grantaire.

 

“Oh,” Enjolras said. And then, “ _What_?! We don’t - no? I don’t even know - no!”

Montparnasse didn’t look convinced. He looked not like he was having any emotions at all really, but he said, “Alright, you can keep protesting at dinner later. Which I am generously going to pay for after we beat you.”

 

It was a tradition they had started in their rookie year together, whenever their teams played each other and there was enough time before the other team left again, they would get dinner, winner’s expense.

 

“You won’t beat us,” Enjolras said because that was the important thing to focus on here.

Montparnasse raised an eyebrow. “Sure.”

“Maybe, I want to celebrate with my team. After we beat _you.”_  

“And miss out on my delightful company?” Montparnasse said, and he sounded smug. “I doubt it.” 

The point was, he wasn’t wrong.

He was wrong about the ‘delightful’ part but not about how Enjolras wouldn’t want to miss out on their dinner, not that he would ever admit that out loud. They were rivals, yes. The media liked to make a big deal out of it, and they weren’t really wrong. They had been predicted to go 1st and 2nd in their draft year after playing together on the same team in Juniors. Enjolras had been picked first, Montparnasse second. Enjolras had become one of the youngest captains in the league, Montparnasse had won the Rookie of the Year Award in their first year.

 

They weren'the friends, their styles of play and coping mechanisms too different. But. It was difficult to find someone who was just in the same position as oneself, going the same way for so long.

So maybe they didn’t like each other. But hate was a very strong word.

 

Which didn’t mean, Enjolras didn’t hate losing.

 

Especially against Parnasse and his team.

 

Maybe it was kind of good they only played each other two times a season.

 

 

***

 

 

“We could go easy on him,” Parnasse said as he leaned forward for the opening faceoff.

“You wouldn’t,” Enjolras snarled. 

 

“Boys,” Javert said and looked like he debated choke them with his whistle. Or just put them both into the penalty box for the rest of the game.

Parnasse was still smiling until Enjolras pushed him neatly out of the way to get the puck on his stick and start the game.

 

 

***

 

 

Five minutes in, Bahorel and Guelemer were shoved off the ice with five-minute fighting majors; Bahorel’s knuckles were red, he was grinning, looking slightly maniac, and it was a game like any other.

 

 

***

 

 

The score was still 0:0 after the first period, not for the lack of trying on both sides but their forwards couldn’t seem to find a way through the wall of defence on the other side, and Parnasse’s team… well, Enjolras had to admit that Grantaire wasn’t doing a bad job in the net.

Really not.

He had stopped Montparnasse on a breakaway and Enjolras hadn’t known what to be more impressed by, the breakaway or the stop, but eventually settled on Grantaire’s save because he hated being impressed by Montparnasse and only was when he had to and Enjolras’s own team wasn’t involved.

Coach Lamarque was saying something about those stupid turnovers - which… he had a point - but it was difficult to pay attention when all Enjolras wanted was to get back out on the ice and ram his stick into someone’s face. And score a goal, or two.

Grantaire was lounging in his seat like he couldn’t be bothered by all of it and it made Enjolras even _more_ angry.

He knew that no one really listened to Coach’s _words_ during intermission, more the sentiment, but still. Grantaire at least should try and listen, it was his first game, Enjolras couldn't understand why on earth he seemed so… _unfazed._

Enjolras remembered puking his guts out before his first game, with Courfeyrac holding his hair back and Combeferre saying calming nonsense. He wouldn’t have been able to get through it without them, and they hadn’t even really known each other that well. He had managed to get a grip eventually but the pressure had been horrible.

Enjolras knew that everyone was different in their way of dealing with pressure situations but… being a tiny bit affected? Surely couldn’t be too much to ask.

 

He didn’t have time to think much more though because they were herded back out onto the ice and Enjolras had to give grim nods, and back pads while steadily trying to ignore Grantaire.

 

 

***

 

 

The second period was worse.

Or maybe not worse exactly.

It was gritty, physical hockey, fighting for puck possession constantly and Enjolras loved it, he loved the game, the energy. The passion that pushed every single movement.

 

Their second line of forwards with Jehan, Bahorel and Feuilly came close to getting the first goal, the puck sprang off the post after a hammering shot from Jehan that would have any sensible human being jump out of the way. But they were hockey players. None of them were really sane.

Parnasse applauded the attempt when their line changed off, not even in a sarcastic way and Jehan smiled at him, and Enjolras did roll his eyes this time.

Two minutes later their team got a powerplay after Joly got high sticked behind their own net and they finally got through the defense, Courfeyrac meddling his way through neutral ice, passing to Combeferre who was just on-side. Combeferre calmly passed the puck right on Enjolras’s stick and he was in the perfect position for slamming in a one-timer.

He wasn’t someone known for excessive celebrating especially when the game was so far from over. 

“Thanks!” he shouted, then patted Combeferre’s helmet, quickly side-hugged Courfeyrac and continued. 

Enjolras could feel the other team get frustrated, more rough, but they held the fort right until a minute before the period was over, Montparnasse seemed to have enough of it, took the puck and basically marched into their defensive zone, deking Joly so prettily that Enjolras wanted to punch his stupid, flawless face. He took the shot from behind the goalline, an angle that was impossible to score from, only it wasn’t because the puck bounced off Bossuet’s skate and under Grantaire’s pad into the net.

“Fuck,” Courfeyrac said next to Enjolras.

“Fuck,” Enjolras echoed.

It was a filthy goal and really no ones fault except Parnasse’s who mockingly saluted Bossuet. The d-man looked positively murderous, which he didn’t very often. Neither on nor off the ice, so it was kind of terrifying.

Grantaire fished the puck out of his net lazily with his stick like it was simply a minor inconvenience.

Then he gently patted Bossuet on the chin pad, looking otherwise completely unbothered and Enjolras was _fuming._

He was fuming through intermission, fuming at the beginning of the third period, fuming when the third goal came through a mob of people around the net, deflecting in, because it was a garbage goal but it was in their own net and they couldn’t do anything about it. 

Grantaire still didn’t look particularly affected which, alright, Enjolras was just going to be affected enough for both of them.

When they credited the goal to Montparnasse over the speakers, Enjolras clenched his teeth. And he was so _not_ going to let Montparnasse score a _hattrick_ on Enjolras’s _home_ ice.

So thirty seconds later he got the fucking puck and just shot it onto the net with so much force his stick bowed, any it maybe wasn’t the move of most finesse but he knew he hadn’t been drafted for calculated playmaking but _taking_ those goddamn shots. Feuilly fresh off a shift change slipped in the rebound and the game was tied at 2:2.

 

After that, all the bets were off. 

 

Courfeyrac had to get off the ice for a couple of minutes after an elbowing that had Enjolras wincing, Bahorel got into the second fight of the night, which was actually the normal quota when they played Parnasse's team, and Enjolras himself landed in the boards after a for once legal hip check that made him thank god again that their teams only played each other two times a season.

The last minutes of regulation were just open fire, getting a shot on goal every time it was possible but their forwards didn’t manage to get anything past the line and, more surprisingly - neither did the other team.

 

And the reason was Grantaire, standing firmly in net and batting away every single puck with quick movements that shouldn’t have looked elegant with the huge goalie pads but Enjolras couldn’t help but think they somehow did.

 

It wasn’t inevitable for the game to go into overtime, just tough luck for both sides.

 

When they gathered at the bench during the short break, Grantaire pulled off his goalie mask and his hair was sweaty, plastered to his forehead and Enjolras had to force himself to look away.

He nearly knocked his stick into Combeferre’s head when he turned away sharply.

Combeferre shot him a concerned look. “Are you alright?”

After Enjolras managed a half-way reassuring smile, the other man concentrated on Coach Lamarque again but not without shooting Enjolras a look that meant they were going to talk later.

 

But first they had a game to win.

 

 

***

 

 

Montparnasse was not smiling this time when they met at the face-off circle which was good because otherwise Enjolras might have punched his teeth.

They didn’t need to take a penalty in overtime but he was still tempted when Montparnasse got the puck, passing it away and racing to the net but the feeling of satisfaction was amazing when Bossuet neatly crushed him into the boards with a grin that was just on this side of crazy.

Enjolras could certainly relate.

The next five minutes were a desperate three-on-three, back and forth, and Enjolras was internally cursing up a storm because the damn puck just. didn’t. get. into the net and he knew they were getting sloppy on their own end and he _hated_ it.

 

But somehow, every time, Grantaire was there in perfect position, seemingly dead calm, an insurmountable wall.

 

Enjolras throat was dry watching him from the bench and he drowned half a bottle of water, letting the rest run down the back of his shirt to cool off his overheated, exhausted body.

He was on the bench when the time ran out, the puck drifting off in the neutral zone.

 

It felt like hundred of souls in the arena started cursing the existence of the shootout at once, Enjolras one of them.

 

Hockey was a game of luck, yes, but the shootout was even more so and the odds were not on their side.

They were playing a back to back game, their concentration down and bodies exhausted after the road trip and on top of that their goalie was making his debut against one of the best teams in the league that wasn’t just their rival because they were good but they were dead set on making Enjolras’s team lose, both of them young, needing to prove themselves, hungry for a Cup.

 

But Enjolras was not going to give up now, not even if he had to get a goddamn goal himself for every time Grantaire let one in.

 

They were the first to shoot.

 

Feuilly got onto the ice, didn’t waste much time to just start ahead with the puck on his stick. He shifted his weight in the last second but the other goalie had apparently anticipated just that and kicked the puck away before it could get into the net. 

Enjolras’s stomach sunk. 

Claquesous was next for the other team, swift and fast. Enjolras was tensing as he watched, the adrenaline pumping in his veins even if he was not on the ice. Claquesous tried to place the shot neatly bar down but Grantaire got his blocker in the way at the very last moment.

 

Enjolras let out a breath he hadn’t even been aware he had been holding.

 

They were still in the game.

And it was his turn.

He glanced at Grantaire who was meeting his eyes and Enjolras tried not to think about how he wanted to win this less for himself, and more for the other man. 

He breathed in, and out, and his whole world narrowed down on the puck, and the ice under his skates, the push of his muscles, his hands, speed and… the puck didn’t went in.

He just saw the other goalie kick it away as Enjolras drifted past the net. 

When he skated back to the bench on autopilot, Montparnasse just grinned at him as he swung over the bench and on the ice.

Enjolras ignored him grimly and tried to keep his emotions in check.

He didn’t want to watch Montparnasse’s turn but then the other man would be even more smug. Enjolras didn’t pay attention to Montparnasse statistics - or he didn’t _always_ \- but he knew he was good. They had played together before, and he just _knew_ he was not going to hear the end of it, god dammit.

Montparnasse stood at center ice, entirely in black on white and in the sea of red home jerseys.

The arena fell quiet. 

And then Montparnasse was starting off towards the goal.

Grantaire stood just at the goal line, knees bent, blocker and stick held lax still and Montparnasse was skating faster and then… Grantaire didn’t move.

 

He just... stayed where he was. Unmoving.

 

Montparnasse go closer and it was like time slowed down and Grantaire _didn’t move_ and all Enjolras could see was the open space around him, all the places the puck could just sail in undisturbed, and he was on his feet before he knew it, ready to scream, and then -

Enjolras could see the exact moment Montparnasse faltered, feet away from the goalline.

 

He lost control and the puck slid weakly towards the net.

 

Grantaire wiped it away like a dead fly.

 

And then the whole arena went berserk while Montparnasse was still staring at the puck like he didn’t understand what was happening. He seemingly snapped back to reality after a second and skated off the ice without meeting anyone’s eye which was probably for the better because he looked _deadly._

 

Enjolras was too out of it to chirp him.

 

He could feel that his mouth was hanging open and he was… furious? Impressed? By reckless stupidity?

He didn’t have much time to think, didn’t know what to think because Courfeyrac was on the ice next and the shootout continued.

He didn’t score.

But Grantaire also stopped the next shot on their goal. And the one after. And the one after.

And on the other side their shots were stopped, or went over the net and Enjolras knew that they were going to do shootout practice, he hated shootout practise, everyone hated shootout practise as if the agony of the thing itself wasn’t enough.

But Grantaire didn’t let in even one puck until he had stopped eight shots on goal.

When he pulled off his helmet to drink he didn’t look any different from someone who was just a little too tired and exhausted after an ordinary morning skate. 

Then Combeferre slowly took the puck down their opponent’s side, calm, strong slides left and right until he was right in front of the goal and brought the puck up with a snipe and past the other goalies shoulder and Enjolras felt a pride so fierce, he could barely breathe.

 

And.

 

At the next shooter Grantaire dropped down in just the right moment to close the five-hole and it was over.

 

Just like that.

They won.

 

Joly and Bossuet were the first off the bench nearly knocking over Grantaire.

Enjolras followed at a more sedate pace still completely at loss as to what had just happened, and, when it was his turn in line to congratulate Grantaire, feeling… nervous?

He didn’t know what he felt but did the normal thing, automatically in the end, moving forward and knocked his helmet against Grantaire’s like he would have done with any other goalie.

Only he didn’t move away immediately, not when Grantaire was smiling, not exuberant or satisfied, just a smile and Enjolras…. needed a drink - something to drink, water. Water was good, he was feeling warm and yeah. Water.

 

In the locker room everyone was happy, ecstatic even and already making plans on going out to celebrate.

 

Enjolras was standing at his stall in his gear half-shed and listened to Grantaire talking to the media, shrugging at questions but in a way that didn’t come across as dismissive but  somehow more charming.

When he was asked about stopping Parnasse’s shot, Enjolras just heard his answer. “Oh, that was just luck.”

Eventually, after all the media had cleared out, showers were done and they all tumbled out of the locker room, Enjolras couldn’t help but glance at Grantaire all the way.

He must have been a little too obvious about it because the other man slowed a little to fall into step with Enjolras.

“Captain,” he said, and there was the ‘Captain’ again, amused.

It made Enjolras bite down on his lip hard before he could answer. “Be serious,” he said and Grantaire shrugged.

“What do you wanted to know?” he asked not sounding any less amused which was _infuriating_ but Enjolras couldn’t help it.

“Parnasse,” he basically blurted out. “That wasn’t luck.”

“It was.”

“Bullshit. You didn’t even _move._ What were you _thinking_?”

The other man looked at Enjolras for a long moment like he was evaluating if he was worth the effort of answering, but eventually shrugged again. “I thought that he likes playing goalies. He’s a show off. What _they_ do, he reads and then he does the opposite quicker. It thought I could just not give him anything to work with. It was worth a shot.”

“Worth a shot,” Enjolras repeated disbelievingly.

Grantaire just smirked.

“How did you know that’s what he does?” he asked and Grantaire shrugged again and goddammit, that shrug made Enjolras… angry. He thought.

“I watch a lot of game tape.”

Enjolras blinked. “Game tape?” And he really needed to stop just repeating the last words Grantaire said.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said and if he was going to shrug, Enjolras would scream. He didn’t luckily. “I saw him doing it all the time in Juniors.”

 

And yeah, Enjolras remembered, now that Grantaire had pointed it out, how Montparnasse had played in Juniors, how they had played together when people had still thought they were friends and then blown up the whole rivalry-narrative overlooking the fact that they were never friends to begin with, not really.

 

“In Juniors?" Enjolras asked and goddammit. "You watched Parnasse’s game tape from Juniors?” He was confused because, why would anyone watch hours of tape from Juniors of someone who didn't even play in the same conference?

Not because he somehow, irrationally felt something seemed an awful lot like jealousy.

Grantaire looked at him and his eyes were so bright and green, blue that Enjolras couldn’t look away. His smile was still close to a smirk but it softened when he said, “I wasn’t watching _him_.” 

And.. oh. 

Oh.

Enjolras’s cheeks suddenly felt a lot warmer.

“I -,” he started but then Joly shouted “R? You coming?”

Grantaire looked away and Enjolras could breathe again - when had he started to hold his breath?

Joly and Bossuet were waiting at a car, both waving with huge grins on their faces. Enjolras loved his team, loved what winning did to them, the happiness but somehow he felt like they could have reigned it in a little right then. 

Grantaire laughed softly. The sound was quiet and fond, and Enjolras swallowed hard.

When he looked at the other man, Grantaire’s smile was crooked and still that slightly amused, sarcastic little thing.

“Captain,” he said again but for some reason Enjolras felt like it sounded different this time.

Maybe because he knew, that after a debut game like this, Grantaire wasn’t going to leave, not for long anyway, and the word really, truly meant something just then.

Or maybe it was just because Enjolras wasn’t sure what to think about that.

 

He should have known, right then, that it was only the beginning.

 

 

***

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this... something. ♥ You're welcome to say hi and talk to me about more beautiful French people on [tumblr](http://vintage-jehan.tumblr.com/). (And Hockey. Hockey's good too.)
> 
> Notes for the nerds like me who are sharing the overlap of Les Mis and Hockey Fandom: 
> 
> I didn’t intend for our dear French boys to be the Habs but if you think about it… that would kind of make Marc Bergevin Louis Phillipe and I do think that’s kind of funny.
> 
> Just imagine Parnasse is on the Kings or something because I like to imagine Enjolras would just hate them on principle. 
> 
> The first line is Courfeyrac centring Enjolras on his right wing and Combeferre on his left because of reasons. (Face offs for dramatic purposes!!!) 
> 
> I kind of imagine Enjolras's shot as something of the likes of Alex Ovechkin or Taylor Hall. 
> 
> Combeferre's shootouts are TJ Oshie's shootouts because damn, do those look chill.
> 
> (Wait, does that kind of make them the Caps?)
> 
> And comment on the story of Grantaire’s goalie debut: Well, let's say I love reading people's Wikipedia pages and thinking, ‘How is this even real??' and then I'm including the cool stuff in fan fic about 19th-century French people. God bless, historiographic metafiction, I guess. (It's Martin Jones. I'm not a Sharks person BUT HOLY) 
> 
> I could go on. For a long time. 
> 
> I didn’t mean to become a hockey person. I’m sorry.


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